


223 - NME Intern Reader

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: Cute meet, F/M, Fluff, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 17:52:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17390924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Filling the prompts “reader is an intern for NME or Radio X/BBC Radio 1 (whatever floats your boat) and goes to an award show with her supervisor and is introduced to the band there. And Van kinda shows interest in her and she basically has to control her Fangirl side and act as normal as she possibly can.” and “Could you do one where he catches you singing or dancing to his songs?” and “Van dating someone who rarely sings/does anything remotely musical around him, and he finally hears them sing and realizes they’re actually?? really good?” and “reader is singing in a shower and van overhears then shouts "what is that song?? who sings it? sounds class” so reader is taken aback that he heard her but then imparts her musical knowledge on this lesser known band to him and then he compliments her voice. later she finds van humming or singing that same song"Bonus mini-request for Van and Reader getting high and having a moment when they hear Mr Brightside.





	223 - NME Intern Reader

The A5 notebook in your hand felt heavier than its pages of paper justified. It was weighed down with the embarrassment you felt when you realised there was no fucking need to bring a notebook to an awards show. Max had snorted when he saw you with it. "Going to school, Y/N?"

You frowned and suppressed the urge to explain yourself. As an intern, you were constantly learning important things. You could hardly keep track of everything you were meant to remember and wanted to remember. The habit of carrying around the notebook was formed because of that. As you left your place, you had not given a second thought to picking it up and carrying it out the door.

Trying to hide it behind your clutch, you awkwardly followed Max. The NME Awards were a big deal, and as you looked around the space and recognised many huge names, another urge was suppressed. You wanted to faint or cry or attach yourself to the legs of half the people in the room. Keep that shit on lockdown, you reminded yourself. The internship meant everything to you. Having a fangirl meltdown was probably not the best course of action if you wanted to keep the position.

Max knew everyone by their first or nickname. It was hard to tell if he actually liked all the people he was being all buddy-buddy with, but that was beside the point. It was his job to mingle and make people feel like rock stars. There were only a few times where people would actively seek Max out, rather than vice versa. When you were seated at your table, a guy leant back in his chair from the next table over and patted Max on the shoulder.

"Mate! How's it going?!"

"Van! How ya feeling, dude?"

You listened to their quickfire back and forth conversation. Of course, you knew who Van McCann was. You'd been watching him walk around the room with frontman grace and small town humility. Catfish and the Bottlemen were easily your favourite band. When you heard their first album a few years back you couldn't believe you were hearing something better than Oasis, but there it was. All the talent and ease, without the pretention.

"Got yourself a date, Max? Bit out of your league, ain't she?" Van asked, grinning at you. You forgot your own name and hoped Max would take over.

"This is Y/N. She's interning with me,"

"So, not a date," Van clarified, extending his hand. Lucky for automatic movements, because your hand was out and shaking his before you even began to process.

"Not a date," Max confirmed.

"Hi," Van said, his voice lowering to a flirty tone that made you want to cry.

"Hi," you squeaked back, going red.

"If ya not on a date, maybe we can have a little dance after?" he asked you. Were you technically working? Max's laughter at your notebook suggested not. However, the fact that you were there with your boss at all suggested you were. "Yeah?" Van prompted, and you were nodding your head enough that he was happy. He let go of your hand, gave Max a wink, and turned back to his table.

"Take a fuckin' breath, Y/N," Max said, pushing your glass of water to you.

"Sorry. I… um… should… what…"

He laughed and knocked his shoulder against yours. "You're all good, dude," he said as you took a sip of water. "You can go ahead and fuck Van McCann for all I care." And with that, water shot out of your mouth and nose. Max laughed. You hoped to God that Van hadn't overheard any of it.

…

Maybe you shouldn't have drunk as much as you did, but you were a lot more sober than Max, so it was fine. After the actual awards ceremony, there were parties and the parties were chaotic. They were music videos playing out in front of you. The craziest photoshoots come to life. You couldn't turn a corner and find an unfamiliar face. All the bands you'd worshipped for so long were drinking and smoking and dancing around you, and it was all very overwhelming.

Make friends, you told yourself. It was the perfect opportunity to get an in with someone, anyone, but instead you took a breather and wandered out into the garden of the house Max had taken you to. Your jacket was left at the front door, notebook in an inside pocket, and out in the garden you were cold. But the fairy lights strung through trees and bushes were pretty, and in your drunken state you thought there was a hedge maze. In reality, it was just a messily landscaped backyard, but you were having fun skipping through it. Everyone else was inside, save for a few people hovering in the doorway smoking and they weren't paying any attention to you. Your black dress camouflaged you well. When you paused to catch your breath, you watched it come from you all foggy like smoke.

"And you got that visible breathin', you're depending on me again," you sang to yourself, punctuating the sentence with a giggle. As you continued to navigate the 'maze,' the lyrics to Cocoon followed you, sung out of time and between heavy breathing. Then, you stopped dead in your tracks when someone else's laughter rang out. You spun on your heels.

Van was sitting on the steps up to the back deck. How long had he been watching you skip in circles, singing his song? Your cheeks went a deep shade of red and although you both thought it, neither of you made the joke.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi," you replied. It was just as awkward as the first time.

"You okay out here by yourself?" he asked, genuinely concerned.

"Yeah… doin' the maze,"

"The maze?" he asked, eyebrows pulling together in confusion. He stood up and walked over to where you were. "What maze?"

Suddenly, out of your little dreamy moment, you could see what he could see. "Fuck,"

"There ain't a maze here,"

"I… am very drunk," you concluded. He'd already figured that.

"Yeah. Maybe hangin' out in the dark by yourself drunk isn't the best idea, huh, love? Let's get you inside. I reckon you promised me a dance, see."

You looked at his hand, again reaching out for you, then nodded slowly and took it. Van led you back inside, back to people and probable safety, then stood you leaning against the kitchen bench. He filled a glass with water, watched you drink, then gave you another.

"Better?"

"Yeah. Thank you,"

"Easy, love. How ya feeling? Do you want to sit for a bit?"

"No," you replied immediately. Van smirked.

"Dance, then?"

You grinned back at him and nodded.

The water helped and you had reached a level of happy-drunk. Van danced with none of the painfully attractive hip swings and heavy stares he did on stage. In real life, he was a mess of long limbs and silly laughter. As he twirled you under his arms, any preconceived notion of Van McCann went out the window and got stuck in your non-existent maze. In its place was the glowing representation of the real Van. But, when your eyes met his and you realised he'd been watching you all sstarry-eyedand spacey, your thirteen-year-old fangirl self gave you a high-five and cried for days.

…

You woke up in your own bed the next day, and the last thing you could remember was the dancing. After, there must have been more drinks. There must have been something, but it was a mess in your head. As you got undressed for a shower, your realised it was a mess on your arm too. You could make out Van's name written in his messy handwriting on your arm. Numbers followed it, but some were smudged. There was no way you'd be able to decipher a full phone number.

Come Monday morning you had decided to keep the whole thing to yourself. The idea of any semi-famous person liking you was unfathomable, let alone one as charming and sweet and cool and amazing as Van McCann. When Max said nothing, giving you only a smirk, you figured you'd got it right. Maybe Van was like that; maybe he just saved girls at parties and made them feel special and that was that.

One of the other interns said she heard that you and Van got along well, and asked if you were going to hang with him again. You confided in her, explained the missing digits and the likelihood of you seeing the night through (drunken) rose coloured glasses. She hummed to herself for a second.

"I don't know, Y/N. It ain't like Max to gossip, you know? But he seemed pretty sure it was a thing. We'd have Van's number here somewhere. Or you could message him on Instagram or whatever."

Maybe. Maybe not.

Still subscribing to traditional ideas of how gender and relationships interact, you didn't even entertain the thought of being the one to reach out to him. If he wanted you, he'd find you.

…

After a month of non-eventful days, you had pretty much left the dreams of dating Van in the past. You had even developed a crush on the new intern at work. They looked like the lovechild of Kristen Stewart and Dane DeHaan, and their bleached white hair reminded you of crushed velvet or maybe snow. On your way to a strategically timed lunchbreak ("Oh, they're on break too?") you bumped into Max.

"Y/N! Was lookin' for you! Need you to work this weekend. There's this band playin' in the city and I just need to know if they're worth investigating. I reckon so, but go down, get a feel for the vibe and crowd. See how they are live. That kind of thing. I've put the passes on your desk, yeah?" he said quickly. Too quickly.

"Yeah, sure. You okay?"

"Yeah,"

"You seem… off," you said, watching a smirk form on his lips. He shrugged and walked off.

The show felt like a trap, but you couldn't figure out why.

…

Arriving at the venue a little early, you spoke to a few of the fans lining up. Someone heard that NME had sent a scout, and you were collected from the sidewalk and ushered inside. "I really don't need to speak to anyone," you said. "That isn't why I am here." But you were from NME and therefore so very important.

In the green room, you met the band and let them tell you their little story. It was forced, but they were nervous. They definitely thought you were more important that what you considered yourself to be.

"Right… So, ah, how'd you get this gig? Big venue for a band just starting out," you asked.

"All about connections, ain't it?" one of them said.

"We know someone that knows someone. And hey! Speak of the devil!"

All the band members cheered as someone entered the room. You looked over to their hero and watched Van waltz in, absolutely loving the attention. He was all toothy grin until he saw you. His face didn't drop to a frown, but he clearly felt something. It was mostly curiosity though.

"Van's been helping us out," the drummer explained. "Puts in a good word for us here and there. Mentions us in interviews. We owe him a lot."

Van couldn't stay for their show, he was just stopping by to wish them luck before he headed somewhere else. During the short five minutes he was in the room, he didn't say anything to you, not until he was ready to leave.

"Y/N? Walk me out?" he asked. The band looked at you in awe. Not only did you work for NME, but Van McCann knew you by name and wanted you to walk him out! Amazing!

You were outside the artist entrance before either of you spoke.

"I don't wanna seem pushy or anythin' or make it seem like I can't take no for an answer, but I'm dead curious… Really thought you'd call, you know? Thought we had loads of fun that night," Van said, trying to distract himself from his residual disappointment by lighting a cigarette.

"Your number was all smudged… on my arm… the next day."

Van frowned, then nodded. "But you didn't come looking for me?" It was a genuine question rather than an accusation. "Max would 'ave given you my number."

How could you tell him that your fangirl brain refused to accept the real life reality of him liking you? You didn't want him to think you saw him as anyone other than his authentic self, but there was no proof of that.

"I… ah… That was a big night, you know? It was the first time I met all these famous people and bands and stuff? I was so, so out of my depth. And I got very drunk. I just… couldn't trust my judgement about anything. Thought I had made up a lot of it," you said. It was the best you could offer him.

"Guess that makes sense. But you didn't make it up. Well. Some of it you probably did. Like the maze thing? 'Cause that weren't real. But I was. I gave you my number 'cause I thought you were dead gorgeous, you know what I mean? And like you said, you aren't from… all this… and it's nice to talk to someone that don't have their head in the clouds… or who just wants to talk to me 'cause they want to know who I know. I liked you. Still do, probably. But-"

"No!" you interjected quickly. "No buts. Um. I'm sorry. For not calling. Like I said… too good to be true kind of thing." Van smirked and watch your mini-freak out. "Here," you said, handing your phone over. "Put your number somewhere safe."

As he typed, he said, "I do actually gotta go now, but ah, be nice to that lot, yeah? They're good kids,"

"They're pretty much the same age as you?"

"And," Van continued, ignoring your sass, "…make sure you message or call or whatever."

You nodded and watched him walk down the alleyway and into a waiting uber.

…

A couple of weeks of messaging and the odd late night phone call, Van was finally back home. You'd not been able to match your calendars up for a proper date before he left, but the messaging meant you got to know each other anyway. It reminded you of the online friendships you had as a teenager, all the people in faraway countries doing a better job at supporting you than half the people in your house.

You'd gone past the point of formality and on his second night home Van invited you over for a homecooked meal. As you sat at his kitchen table in his sparsely decorated house, you watched him cook; a hidden talent.

"Never would have guessed. Had you pegged as the takeaway or eat at mum's type of guy," you said. He chuckled.

"Most people do. Learnt the basics when me mum and dad had a bed and breakfast. Never get to cook on the road or anything, so it's nice to be able to do it all proper now."

It was casual enough that he hadn't set a dining table or anything awkward like that, but there were little touches that showed you he'd still planned. There were fresh flowers on the kitchen table and the salt and pepper shakers had been filled. The fridge was stocked with choice and as you decided what you'd have, you noticed the plastic film was still on the door. You picked at the corner reflexively.

"You can pull that all off if you want. It's a new fridge. Never bothered to unwrap it," he said, watching your movements out of the corner of his eye. You gasped, happy, and slowly peeled it away. It was a satisfying feeling that put you in an even better mood.

The conversation over dinner picked up where text messages left off, and it was like you had known each other forever. When he forced it out of you that you were a fan, he laughed, not all dismayed by the fact you'd already thought about him long before he knew of your existence.

"That's good, that is. Means you can never be pissy if I go away to record or whatever. It's in your best interest as a fan," he said. Did he already consider you his girlfriend then?

…

Dessert was tea and banana bread out on the back porch of his house. The air outside was freezing, but under the pile of blankets Van dragged out from somewhere, you were fine.

"So, I know you're a drinker," he started with a smirk. You nodded. "But what are your other vices?"

"Like smoking and stuff?" you asked. Van shrugged a vague affirmative nod. "I don't smoke… cigarettes." He was laughing already. "What?"

"The pause. I don't smoke, pause, cigarettes. That means you do smoke, just not tobacco,"

"Yeah…" you replied, apprehensive to admit too much. Van grinned.

"No, that's good. Just didn't wanna outright asked if you smoked a bit of dope now and then, you know? But also, do you want a smoke now?"

He was a precious and strangely cautious thing. You nodded and watched him bounce into the house and return quickly.

The stars in the sky started to move, like they were floating on waves. Van played music through his phone, leaving it the box next to the seat that was acting as a table. It had obviously housed the new fridge on its journey to his home. With Van’s arm wrapped tightly around you, and your head on his shoulder, you were thinking to yourself about how it was a perfect date. Lowkey. Warm. Beautifully thought through. Safe and comfortable.

Van's hand tapping out a melody on your leg pulled you from your private reflection. You listened for the song, Mr Brightside.

"It's just… the best… song ever…" you whispered.

"I know. I so, so know, Y/N… You don't even need to tell me, love," he replied.

You looked up at his face and found the same spacey expression that was resting on yours.

"I love them," you told him, still in a whisper, still looking up at him. He nodded, closed his eyes, and smiled. His lips reached far across his face and his dimples were deep. As he lost himself in the song, his lips moving with an automatic lip sync, you watched him, letting him use your body to tap against, to make music with.

Near the end of the song, he spoke. For a split second you were annoyed that he had ruined the moment, but then the words spelt out a sentence that couldn't possibly ever do wrong.

"Real glad you didn't lose my number again," he said. You nodded into him.

"Me too,"

"And I'm real glad you're here now. You'll hang around for a while, yeah?"

You mumbled a confident ah-huh into him and wrapped yourself around his hoodie-clad frame.

…

Two months later and it was all just as dreamy and easy. When Van was out of the country, you buried yourself in work. Work ethic strong and gratefulness abundant, you were bound to become the favourite of all the interns, but you settled into the world so easily too. You didn't get starstruck around bands anymore, and anyone that vaguely knew Van knew you. You'd hear stories about him through them, about how you were all he talked about. It filled with you enough warm fuzzies to sustain you while you couldn't be in his bed.

When he was home, you'd use your saved up leave days to see him and spend as much time as possible together. It was an effortless string of live music and sleepovers and guitar lessons. "Babe, you really ain't got a musical bone in ya body, do you?" Van would laugh as you pouted but agreed.

"A tragedy, I know. Guess you're stuck with Bond for a little while longer."

Of all the favourite things you had about Van and the relationship, your number one was that it meant you had more than your own body to explore. You liked being able to reach out and find someone always there. You liked being able to comb through his hair and pull at split ends. You liked finding hidden freckles and marks on his skin. Van agreed. "Just like, you know, being able to just touch without havin' to ask all the time," he said and although you weren't exactly sure what he meant, you still felt that you agreed. He would wander in on your baths and plonk himself down and smile all high and lazy. When you were doing the grocery shopping together, he'd disappear down and aisle, then announce his return with a kiss on your cheek or gently slap on the butt if nobody was around. Quickly, what was yours became his and his became yours, body and all.

It came as no surprise to you, given your non-existent boundaries, when Van's laughter pulled you from the concert you'd been performing in the shower. He had been out with Larry, and the music was loud enough that you had not heard him arrive home. No car in the drive. No slamming front door. No knock as he entered the bathroom. Just, all of a sudden, him laughing at you.

"Van!" you squealed.

"No! Don't stop! You can sing, babe,"

"Shut up. Go away. I'm busy,"

"With ya show? It's great. Can't I stay? Front row seats?" he said with a smirk, leaning against the glass door that separated you and him.

Another favourite thing: you could be naked around each other and it didn't have to mean sex and it definitely didn't create awkwardness.

You filled your mouth with water and spat it at the glass near his face. He grinned.

"How long have you been there?"

"Long enough that I know you can sing now. You said you couldn't," he replied.

"I can't. Your opinion doesn't count 'cause you love me. Got cloudy vision about me,"

"Glad you know that, but I'm still right. And what was that song anyway? I don't know it?" You could hear in his voice that he was genuinely shocked that he couldn't identify it.

"What? You have to be a musical expert? I can't know something you don't?" you teased. He stuck his tongue out and walked out the room.

"I'll figure it out!" he yelled at you from the hallway.

…

"Please?" Van begged. You shook your head again. "Y/N!" He was under you because you were winning the play fight. Van had started it when it threw a pillow at you when you refused to sing again. There had been tickle attacks, which he hated, and disgustingly wet licks to the face, which you hated. Van pushed you off him and climbed on top, easily pinning your hands above your head. "Why you doin' this? Just sing. We'll do a duet,"

"No. Your singing no longer makes me all weak and fangirly. I am immune," you replied deadpan.

"I'm hurt," he said with a pout. "What if I…" and he leant down and whispered a list of things that he'd promise to do if you sang again. You tried to not giggle, but hearing Van say dirty things always made you laugh.

"Gross," you whined, pushing him off you and crawling to the other side of the bed, pulling a blanket around you.

"Gross? You're so rude. Don't even know why I put up with you," he said, trying to bait you into more play fighting. You shrugged. "Can you at least tell me what that song was?"

"Yeah, heard you humming it all week. Haven't figured it out yet?"

Van shook his head and you could see the discomfort he felt when he hadn't been able to solve the musical puzzle. As you told him the name and played the video on YouTube on your phone, Van watched you happily.

"Never even heard of them!"

"Yeah, pretty new. Their demo came into the office the other week. You should adopt them. I think they're from around here," you told him.

"You've got good taste," he replied, taking your phone and watching the screen. You couldn't tell if he had made a genuine comment or if it was a joke about your choice of his band as your favourite or of him as a boyfriend. "Gotta say though, prefer when you were singing it, but," he said, turning to you and smirking in one final attempt.

"It's not going to happen, McCann. Give it up."


End file.
